


I'm Sorry

by Johnnlocked (Krullenbol2602)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Mess, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Slash, Swearing, tears tuesday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krullenbol2602/pseuds/Johnnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John explodes. Sherlock confesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> And another Tumblr Ficlet

 Fuck this. Fuck it all to hell!

John cursed to himself, swinging his legs out of bed. He needed to get out. To move. To do something other than laying on his back staring at the ceiling, willing the images away. Even now, after all these years, John hated these nightmares more than anything. It had been real. The smell of blood still made him sick on some days. Whenever something fell, he could imagine it was Sherlock’s skull crashing and smashing to bits on the pavement.

And those eyes. Dead. Gone.

John nearly tore his robe to pieces when he snatched it from the hook and made his way downstairs. Tea. He just needed a cuppa, something light to eat. A book maybe. Fall asleep in his chair.

Fuck this day.

Four years to the date, a spectacular revelation, a marriage and one hell of a divorce later and still he couldn’t deal with it.

When John made his way downstairs, he noted he wasn’t alone. Sherlock was there, in the kitchen, making an amazing effort not to stare at him as he focused on his microscope. His microscope without a bloody slide in it.

‘There is nothing underneath it,’ John snapped and Sherlock lifted his head, frowning. ‘Stop it, Sherlock. I know you heard me. I bloody woke myself up.’

John moved past him, turning on the kettle in his path.

Nothing happened.

John halted, turned back around and tried again. Nothing.

‘Sherlock… what have you done?’

‘What do you mean?’

John breathed in harshly. ‘The kettle, Sherlock. It was working fine last night, it isn’t working now. What. Did. You. Do?’

‘John, if you would just look…’

‘OH SHUT UP!’ John turned around and Sherlock flinched at the sudden movement. But John doesn’t care. Not anymore. Not with the sight of Sherlock’s dead still fresh in his memory. He is done, so done and he doesn’t care. He knows it is not about the bloody kettle but he doesn’t care.

‘That’s the thing with you isn’t it? ‘You see, but do not observe!’’ John took another step towards Sherlock and the taller man moved away from his chair. Something dark inside John was pleased to see Sherlock cowering away from him. To gain back some sense of control. ‘Is it really that much fun? Watching us normal people stumbling around, looking for a way to make sense of it all? Was that the reason? Let’s see how far I can push John Watson to the brink before he considers jumping? How much secrets can I have for him before he breaks? Going around the world, being a bloody hero while I – what the hell are you doing?!’

Something flashed in Sherlock’s eyes but his hands won’t move away from the buttons on his shirt. He opened them, one at a time and John can see the scar Mary’s gun left on him. But Sherlock didn’t stop.

 

He turned, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders and what John saw…

_Jesus Christ!_

There are scars. Scars John knew hadn’t been there before. They’re healed but still prominent and John could almost see the whip slicing through Sherlock’s skin. He could see the blood running down the pale skin of Sherlock’s back. The pain they must have caused.

‘The kettle… I unplugged it earlier. It’s unplugged.’

John reached out but Sherlock’s words halt his movements. He turned his head to look.

_Oh… hell._

John took a deep breath, swallowing down the nausea and moved closer to Sherlock. He kept his back directed to John but John could see the tightness of his shoulders. The clenching of his hands into fists.

‘When?’ John managed to ask.

‘When you… before I came back.’

 _I’m gonna be sick._ ‘So you… you had these when I… Jesus Sherlock…’

John did touch them then. Carefully, as if they were still healing, he traced the lines that marred Sherlock’s back, hating Moriarty for pushing them this far and to this point. Hating himself for not seeing sooner. For being selfish in light of Sherlock’s unspoken suffering.

Sherlock exhaled, shuddering underneath John’s touch and without thinking and burning eyes, John pressed himself to his back, wrapping his arms around him. He kept mumbling his apologies over and over again against his skin until Sherlock raised his hands to grab John’s arms. Not to push them away. To hold him there.

‘I am so sorry John.’ Sherlock’s voice was trembling and John felt his tears escape. ‘I had no idea you’d be… If there had been another way, I –’

‘I know.’

No more was said during that early morning. But they held each other, finally, after years, healing the wounds they both suffered. 


End file.
